


The 25th of December

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Death Wish, Depression, Gen, Half-Blood Prince AU, Hurt/Comfort, Present Tense, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still devastated by the loss of his godfather as Christmas approaches, Harry lives simply to fulfill the Prophecy. When a vague companion prophecy makes it clear that death may come sooner than he expects, Harry is content to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 14 December 1996

“When the sun goes down on the 25th of December, the Dark Lord ascends to absolute power. Unless the one who is Chosen finds a way to call his enemy friend, those he names friend will die.”

Harry Potter gazes at the old wizard with the long, white beard as Trelawney’s image finishes her latest prophecy . There is no one more unlike Father Christmas, except for the twinkle that used to lighten Dumbledore’s eyes. 

“Which enemy?” Harry asks, showing no surprise at this development. There were so many, though none that Harry had provoked to hate him. Dudley and Umbridge, the Malfoys-

“Professor Snape.”

Ah. 

Harry blinks as Dumbledore grimaces slightly. Harry settles back in his chair, his elbows balancing points on the padded rests. It is obvious that Dumbledore expects him to rage and bellow at him that he will not do it. Perhaps he waits for Harry to destroy his office like he did after Sirius died. But he is past such tantrums now. He has been gliding for months now. 

Alive, but not living. 

And so Harry waits for the puppeteer to pull his strings. 

“You will have to trust him with your life, Harry.”

Harry almost smiles at that. Easy. His life means precious little. 

“Do you trust me, Harry?”

The blue eyes try to pierce Harry through, but they cannot go where there is nothing. Harry nods; it is not a lie. Dumbledore will do what needs doing. Harry will follow where he is led. There is no reason any longer to question this arrangement. 

Harry has a vague urge to ask what Snape will want from him, but he doesn't. Dumbledore will tell him only what he wants him to know. 

“Severus, good evening.”

Harry doesn’t turn around.

“Headmaster.” Snape’s voice in unusually subdued, and Harry thinks he is layering the single word above a deep anger—or resentment perhaps. Harry recognizes that Snape doesn't agree with Dumbledore’s plan. But he has no choice either. 

Dumbledore turns back to Harry now; his gaze sweeps over the still and silent boy. “You will need to do everything Professor Snape tells you to do, Harry. Whatever he tells you to do. The world depends on it. Do you understand that?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.” Of course he understands. That’s what he’s been groomed to do since before he could speak—to become the Savior of the wizarding world. 

“He cannot possibly understand,” Snape says from behind him.

Dumbledore makes a noise of disappointment, but Harry has already turned to face the towering professor. 

“The sooner he dies, the sooner it ends,” he says quietly. He knows that both Dumbledore and Snape believe he means the war. “I will do what you say,” he adds, making the words sound like a vow so that Snape will have no reason to doubt him. 

When Snape’s eyebrows rise, Harry almost sighs in relief. There is a tiny break in the dark clouds he’s been seeing since he watched Sirius fall into the Veil. 

Only twelve more days. Twelve more days and he can finally stop pretending to care. He will finally get his peace. 

“Give me your hand, then,” Snape says with no further explanation. 

“We will need a sample of your blood, Harry,” Dumbledore explains quietly, but Harry is already extending his palm toward Snape. Snape uses his wand to make a jagged cut; Harry winces in pain as his blood is squeezed into a vial full of black liquid. When it begins to smoke, Snape releases Harry’s hand. 

Harry draws his arm back toward his chest before Snape can heal him; he curls his fingernails into the wound and watches, fascinated despite himself as Snape puts the vial to his lips and drinks the black liquid. Snape grimaces, perhaps from the taste. The vial disappears. 

A heavy sigh echoes through the large office. 

“It is done,” Dumbledore announces. 

“Come with me,” Snape directs, the words sharp now, almost as if he's reached some sort of breaking point. Harry stands. 

The urge to ask where they’re going has left—he cannot even summon enough curiosity to ask about the potion Snape just quaffed. What matters is that the end is so near that Harry imagines he can hear their voices. His dad and mum. Sirius. They’ll be waiting for him. 

“Harry,” Dumbledore says quietly, in the gentle voice he often reserves for the worst news. Harry doesn’t react, save to turn back toward the Headmaster’s desk. Harry watches Dumbledore’s white beard as it dips toward his desk while the old wizard searches his eyes. “You must trust Professor Snape to be your protector.”

There are so many layers to the old man’s voice; more even than Snape’s. Harry knows he should feel fear at the words, but he feels nothing. Just like any other day. 

“I will, sir,” Harry agrees. This time, Snape makes no disagreement. 

“Good luck, my boy,” Dumbledore says fervently; he leans forward. Harry lifts his hand obligingly and allows Dumbledore to take it. He feels the pressure of the wizard’s wrinkled fingers, but it means nothing to him. He finds no comfort. 

“Thank you, sir,” Harry says politely. Dumbledore releases his hand. 

Snape’s black eyes rake over Harry’s perfect posture. And then he pivots toward the Floo. Harry follows.

From across the room, Dumbledore’s eyes look wet. Harry moves his gaze to Fawkes’ cage and waits until the fire consumes him. 

As soon as they stop spinning, Snape steps out of the fireplace and onto a dirty floor. Harry needs no prodding to follow. Snape turns around so abruptly that Harry nearly topples as he loses his balance. Snape grabs his arm to keep him upright. Once he’s steady, Snape hisses against his ear, “Believe nothing you hear." Before Harry can blink, Snape utters a spell and Harry’s wrists are bound and a patch of adhesive sits squarely over Harry’s lips. Unable to stop the reflexive reaction, Harry jerks away, but Snape’s fingers tighten until he squeaks in pain. 

“Be still, you filthy little blood traitor, or I will bind your legs as well,” Snape snarls; Harry blinks in surprise. 

“Se-Severus... You’ve ar-arrived.”

Wormtail is just entering the room. He smiles nervously when he sees Harry. Harry stares at him 

“The Dark Lord will be so pleased,” Wormtail stutters. “You did it.”

“The boy is under my complete control,” Snape tells him. “Dumbledore is a fool,” he adds with a sneer. 

Wormtail nods eagerly. 

Snape gestures for the little man to join them. Wormtail steps toward Snape, keeping out of reach of Harry, as if Harry plans to spring at any moment and attack. He does not realize that Harry has no reason to.

Once Wormtail is beside them, Snape nods. Wormtail shakes his left arm so that his forearm is exposed. Snape’s long fingers press the skull on Wormtail’s arm; the snake begins to writhe from the skull’s mouth. 

Snape yanks Harry closer and turns on the spot. 

Harry feels for all the world as if he is being squeezed through a pin-sized tube. Not until he’s squeezed out again does he see where Snape has brought him. 

The graveyard where Cedric was murdered. 

Again, Harry’s muscles betray him and he struggles against Snape’s hold. Snape’s fingers clamp against both arms now, forcing Harry to turn his back to him and face the ones who want to kill him. 

They are standing in a circle of Death Eaters. 

Trust eludes Harry now. He wants to turn and spit in Snape’s traitorous face, but Snape holds him fast. And Harry knows now that his death will be meaningless. 

“Kneel before your Lord, half-blood swine,” someone jeers and Harry is forced to his knees; Snape holds him down, his hands hot and heavy as they dig into his shoulders. Pain engulfs him—in his scar this time. He understands now that Dumbledore really is a fool. 

“Bow to me, Harry Potter.” The ephemeral voice glides over the graveyard. 

The command is obeyed immediately. Harry is shoved toward the ground with so much force that he can’t breathe. He struggles against the icy ground, but a booted foot holds him down. He can only turn his face to the side. He watches, shivering as Voldemort steps into the circle. 

“You have done well, Severus,” Voldemort says, his eyes only for Harry. 

“Thank you, my Lord,” Snape simpers, and the booted foot quivers against Harry’s back. It belongs to Snape. 

Voldemort’s toes are almost touching Harry’s lips now. 

“He is yours now?” Voldemort asks, his voice full of curiosity. 

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape whispered. “The blood transfer is complete. Dumbledore can no longer protect him.”

Harry strains to understand the words as the dampness begins to seep into his jumper.

“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort says quietly. His bare foot presses gently into Harry’s cheek, prodding it. Harry looks up, hoping he looks unmoved. Voldemort smiles. “I am truly sorry it had to come to this, Harry. You should have died when I first tried to kill you. You would have known no difference then.”

Harry says nothing, only continues to stare. Death will be still be the release he craves, even if it is for nothing. He wishes though, even as the dark clouds close tightly over him that he could have done what he was meant to do. So that no one else would have to die. 

Voldemort points his wand lazily at Harry. “You have cheated death for too long, Harry Potter.” The words are a caress. 

Harry closes his eye. There is no hope. There is no fear either. Despair for those he loves. Despair for his own failure. 

Harry waits. 

Voldemort’s foot moves sharply so that Harry’s face is turned up toward the sky. He opens his eyes instinctively. He is looking into Snape’s face now. Snape’s jaw is clenched and trembling. There is pain in that face. 

Harry keeps his eyes open now, those eyes anchoring him, even as he hears Voldemort’s snarling, “Avada Kedava.”


	2. 15 December

**15 December**

The world is dark when Harry opens his eyes. 

“Do not attempt to move.”

Harry tries to twist his face toward the deep voice, but a warm hand comes to rest against his chin, holding it in place. 

“Do not move.” The repeated words are harsher now, which makes them easy to recognize. 

“Snape.” Harry’s voice is raspy. He wants to ask for water, but he thinks there is something more important to be said. He can't remember what it is. 

“Do not speak, Potter. _Listen_.” Snape’s voice is closer now. Harry does not have to turn to find it anymore; he can feel Snape’s hot breath against his face. “The Dark Lord attempted to cast the Killing Curse against you. You seemed to be dead for a brief moment, but only for a moment.”

Harry remembers a flash of green light, and Voldemort uttering the deadly words. 

“You didn't die, just as Albus said,” Snape murmurs. Harry finds the words odd, but he can’t really figure out why. Snape doesn't usually state the obvious. 

“The Dark Lord does not know why you won’t die,” Snape continues, the timbre of his voice changing. “You are his prisoner now.” Snape’s fingers shift against Harry’s chin—almost as if they are restless. “He wishes to see if you will die in the Muggle way.” Snape’s fingers move again, this time to give Harry’s chin a tug. “Open your mouth,” he says, his voice low and gruff.

Harry’s lips part. 

“Aguamenti,” Snape whispers. Water trickles into Harry’s mouth. Harry laps at it greedily, but it is gone much too soon. “You will not die here.”

Harry tries to focus on the face that he can't see. He wonders what Snape means. Harry knows the first Prophecy foretells his death. Where will he die, if not here?


	3. 16 December

**16 December**

Snow wakes Harry. 

There is light this time—soft and muted. He can see flakes drifting toward him to land, cold and wet on his face and hair. He tries to turn his head toward the wind, but pain stops him as it shoots through his limbs. It is the only way he knows he still has arms and legs. 

“He will not allow you to move…it is a dark spell.”

Snape’s face comes into view then. He looks like he hasn’t slept since before they met Voldemort in the graveyard. 

“Open your mouth,” Snape commands quietly. Harry’s lips part eagerly; his throat is so dry. The spell is whispered and for a brief moment, Harry’s thirst is sated. He smacks his lips when the spell ends. Snape is frowning down at him, but for once he doesn’t look angry. “They are on their way. You will not be able to speak.”

_Who? Why?_ Harry wants to ask, but there is a heavy squeak behind his head—a door is scraping open. 

Snape is sneering down at him now. “You will only last another day, Potter. Even you cannot live forever without water.” 

Snape looks up; his eyes are dark and full of hate now. 

“The Dark Lord wishes a report on his condition.” The high voice makes Harry’s body thrum with violence. He wants to kill her—even after all these months. 

“He is growing weaker,” Snape reports dispassionately. “It is only a matter of time now.”

Something soft caresses Harry’s cheek. His eyes travel up her velvet robes so that he can see her face. Bellatrix smiles in the cruel way he remembers. 

“Our only regret is that it took us so long to get you here.” 

She lowers herself so that her face looms close to Harry’s. 

Her eyes look feverish before she slaps him. 

Harry’s head whips around so that he is staring at a gray wall in the next instant. Blood gushes over his tongue, and there is more pain from the dark spell that does not allow him to move without repercussions. 

He thinks he cries out, but there is no sound. 

“For my Lord,” Bellatrix whispers. 

Harry does not look at her as coppery liquid slides down his throat. 

“Have you had any fun with him yet, Severus?” This voice is unfamiliar. 

Harry’s eyes flick back to Snape’s face. So cold those black eyes. 

Snape’s lips twist into a gruesome smile. 

“He is practically a corpse, Yaxley. He doesn’t even scream,” Snape says, turning a bit to look toward the door, where Yaxley is presumably standing. 

“No fun in it,” Yaxley agrees. The words mean nothing to Harry.

He closes his eyes as the soft robes brush once more against his cheek. He wishes he could jump up and finally cast the spell he should have cast all those months ago. He would mean it this time. 

Footsteps crunch in the snow. 

“Do try not to let yourself become too bored, Severus.” That drawling voice is as recognizable as Bellatrix’s, but Harry feels nothing but waning hatred as Bellatrix moves out of range. 

“He will be dead soon enough, Lucius,” Snape says dismissively. Harry hears only boredom in his voice; the layers are gone. 

“Not nearly soon enough,” Malfoy sniffs disdainfully. 

Snape’s head dips in agreement, a malicious smile on his face. “He will pay dearly for making the Dark Lord wait,” he promises. 

Harry shivers on the frozen floor.

“As well he should.”

The door scrapes loudly behind Harry’s head. It closes with a dull thud. 

“Aguamenti Glacialis.” 

Harry does not open his mouth this time. He doesn’t want Snape’s water. 

Something soft and cold is pressed against Harry’s mouth. 

Harry opens his eyes. 

Snape’s face is there; his eyes are just as black but there is something different.

“They will notice if I heal you.”

Harry doesn’t nod, but he keeps his lips carefully still as Snape presses the corner of his robe against them. 

The icy fabric dulls the pain at the corner of Harry’s mouth. He wishes there was a way to make the other aches go away. 

Not much longer, he knows. 

The weight of Snape’s fingers against his chin comforts him. He can feel the pulse under Snape’s wrist. 

He focuses on the steady thrum.


	4. 17 December

**17 December**

There are only grey shadows when Harry looks up. 

Pain radiates from his stomach, making his limbs tremble. 

He hasn’t moved in days. 

Except when Snape sits beside him. 

Harry’s lips part at the thought of the water Snape gives to him. He wants to look around. Snape will be standing near the door. 

Snape isn’t allowed to leave. Voldemort trusts him. 

Harry tries to remember Dumbledore’s words. They are difficult to remember. 

He watches the grey shadows as they march through the dusk and into the night. Until, finally, he hears Snape’s robes as they swish over the stone floor. Darkness cloaks them now. 

“Aguamenti.”

Harry tries to open his mouth before the spell is even complete. His lips are too swollen. But the water trickles in anyway. 

“They will be suspicious by morning,” Snape tells him quietly. Harry understands. It is not yet time for him to die. “The Dark Lord will attempt to kill you another way eventually.”

Harry can only make out Snape’s outline. He is not afraid.


	5. 18 December

**18 December**

The searing pain in his head tells Harry how angry Voldemort is. 

It is dark again. 

“Say nothing,” Snape’s voice warns. “No matter what they say to you.”

Harry doesn’t understand, but he is silent even as he feels his back leaving the solid surface beneath him. His neck droops as he is slowly spun around. He can see the floor now. It is splotched with rings of ice. 

Harry knows he is moving but there is nothing but cold air surrounding him as he passes through the doorway of his prison. The door is made of solid metal, except the top. Harry understand why he has been so cold. 

The night seems bright outside. But there is no moon.

A bonfire lights the cemetery. Death Eaters circle the inferno. 

“Put him down, Severus.”

Harry can’t help the impulse to look up. Voldemort’s face flashes in his sight for an instant as Harry drops to the ground. He doesn’t try to move, even as pain lashes at his body. He cries out, but he utters no sound. 

Voldemort crouches down beside him; he runs a long fingernail along the side of Harry’s face. Tilts his head to the side as he studies Harry. “Why won’t you die, Harry Potter?”

There is a flash of light. 

Harry stares at the long blade in Voldemort’s hand. He can see one of his own green eyes reflected in the smooth surface. 

“Perhaps the best way is to do it ourselves,” Voldemort muses. Harry watches him flick his wrist. Movement beside Harry catches his eye; Snape is kneeling beside his head. “The honor is yours, Severus.”

Snape’s fingers quiver on the hilt of Voldemort’s knife. Voldemort smiles. Snape bows his head low. “Thank you, My Lord.”

Harry can feel his lips trembling, even though he knows he is ready to die. 

Snape lifts his head. Harry watches. 

The point of the knife is pressed into Harry’s chest. 

Harry keeps his eyes open, and Snape finally looks away. 

Pressure gives way to pain as the knife pierces him. Harry waits. The pain does not change.

The ground is so cold. 

A snarl shrieks through the stillness. The pain ends abruptly as Snape flies backward to land in a heap near the fire. And the pain quickly returns, to a new spot in Harry’s chest. Voldemort’s face looms over him. His eyes are glowing. The ache is steady. 

This time, Voldemort’s cry makes the participants in the circle shift restlessly. 

“Imperio,” Voldemort hisses. His ruby eyes are close to Harry’s now. 

Harry’s hand wants to move. It twitches even as he tries to keep it still. Voldemort smiles. 

“It will only be more painful if you try to fight it, Harry.”

It is more painful. 

Voldemort is insistent. 

Harry pierces his own flesh with Voldemort’s blade. He can feel himself exerting pressure against the hilt. His breaths become ragged as his hand tries to force the blade further into his flesh. 

The blood is warm against his chest. 

Voldemort rages, but the knife will not go any further no matter how hard Harry pushes. 

The knife is yanked from Harry’s chest, and whizzes past his head. The sound of the blade being buried deep in human flesh squelches in Harry’s ears. Death’s distinctive gurgle soon follows. 

Voldemort’s fingers weave through Harry’s hair. He gasps as his head is yanked brutally to the side. The motion should have snapped his neck. But he is not dead. He can see Snape watching him as he leans beside a nearby headstone. 

Voldemort snarls again as he releases Harry.

Harry stares up at the swimming stars. 

“Take him from my sight,” Voldemort hisses, and Harry wonders if he is talking to Snape. 

Harry is lifted by invisible strings once more. His limbs feel like lead. 

He crosses the threshold into his prison once more. 

The door scrapes closed. 

“Finite,” Snape’s voice murmurs. 

Harry tries to prepare himself for the floor’s impact. 

He crumbles into shaking arms. He is staring up at Snape. 

Snape’s breathing is loud in Harry’s ears, and Harry can no longer hear his own ragged breaths. Snape’s lips tremble, but he does not speak as he shuffles toward the opposite wall. His arms tighten around Harry before he collapses to the floor. 

They shiver together as the wind howls through the metal bars on the door.


	6. 19 December

**19 December**

“Potter, stay awake.”

Harry blinks several times as he tries to make Snape’s face come back into focus. He is too tired. He doesn’t want to stay awake. 

“Potter,” Snape says, a little more sharply. Snape shakes his shoulder, and Harry’s eyes slide open once more. He focuses on the dark purple bruise covering almost half of Snape’s face; the place where Voldemort struck him. It is difficult to see it in the dim light from Snape’s wand. 

Harry shivers. “Cold…” he chatters. His own voice is unfamiliar to him. 

Snape nods. “The Dark Lord is intensifying the cold,” he explains, and Harry thinks he remember a similar interplay of words. “My warming charms are useless.” Harry imagines regret in Snape’s voice. 

Voldemort is trying to freeze him to death. 

“I could not heal your chest,” Snape continues as Harry shakes. The regret seems like an echo now. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” Harry says in a low rasp. It isn’t a lie. Harry feels nothing; not anymore. 

Snape frowns down at him; shadows flicker across his face as he leans closer to Harry. “Three times,” he murmurs. Harry feels a pressure against his chest, but no sharp sensations like he felt in the cemetery. “The Headmaster said you could not be killed—not if I didn't wish it,” Snape whispers; Snape’s hand is flat against Harry’s chest now. 

Harry wants to ask him to wish it, but even death is too much effort. He doesn’t care why he can’t die. 

But Snape continues on, as if he can't bear the silence which has stretched between them for days. Even the Death Eaters who enter the cell don't speak as much as they used to. Perhaps they are too afraid. Harry marvels that he was ever fearful of dying. 

“That potion was dark magic,” Snape rambles, and Harry hears without listening. “But even the Dark Lord did not understand the ramifications of the potion. He only wanted to get you away from Albus. He trusted me to know the details…”

The words drift in and out. Sleep is the only thing Harry wants. 

“Potter, look at me.”

The harsh command snaps Harry’s eyes open. Snape is glaring down at him. 

“Don't close your eyes again, Potter,” he says, his voice quiet and furious. “The temperature is too low. You might not wake up again. Do you understand me?” he demands when Harry does not acknowledge the command. Snape shakes his shoulder again. “Potter!”

Harry gazes blearily up at Snape. “You said I can’t die,” he mumbles. “Not unless you…” Speaking uses energy which Harry doesn’t have. So he closes his mouth and watches the wand light reflect in Snape’s eyes. 

“What if he's wrong?” Snape demands; the words burst out in a rush of breath. Harry says nothing. It doesn’t matter if Dumbledore is wrong. 

Snape’s eyes suddenly narrow. 

“You have given up,” he accuses. 

The wand light is dancing erratically in Snape’s eyes now. 

“How dare you believe you have the right to give up?” Snape’s fingers curl suddenly against Harry’s chest. It reminds Harry that he was pierced three times…he cannot remember exactly when.

“I’ll wait as long as I can…’til the…twenty-fifth…” Harry whispers. His throat is too dry to say anything more, but he hopes Snape will understand that he will not be selfish, so that the professor will let go of his chest; it is beginning to pulse uncomfortably. 

It does not work. Snape’s fingers tighten. 

Harry wishes he would let go. 

“Wait?” Snape breathes feverishly. “What do you mean, Potter? Wait for what?”

Harry’s vision blurs as the pain becomes unbearable. Wet warmth pools around Snape’s fingernails. 

Snape’s eyes widen. He snatches his hand away; cradles it to his chest as he stares down at Harry. 

Harry blinks away the disorientation. 

Snape’s hands are moving quickly now. 

He lifts Harry’s jumper and presses the edge of his robe into the re-opened wounds. He utters a spell that Pomfrey uses to stop bleeding. 

There is only a slight buzz of pain now. 

Harry gasps quietly as Snape’s hand rests on his chest; it's cold. 

Snape is staring intently at his chest. One of his fingers brushes the wound that he himself created. He looks like he might sick up. 

He doesn’t. He tugs Harry’s jumper back into place with two fingers. 

“What did you mean?” Snape’s voice is gruff. 

“Prophecy…kill him…” Harry grimaces as he tries to swallow. 

“Aguamenti,” Snape says impatiently. The water soothes Harry’s throat. 

“Then it… won’t matter…” he manages. He waits for Snape’s nod. 

Snape doesn’t nod. 

“Won’t matter?” he echoes derisively. “How do you plan to end your life, then, Potter?” he inquires sarcastically. 

Harry doesn’t understand the question. It isn’t his plan. Nor his choice. He will not survive his encounter with Voldemort; it was decided many years ago. 

“First Prophecy…both of us die…or neither of us…” Harry says roughly as his throat scratches painfully. 

He understands what Dumbledore would not explain. He accepts what must be. 

Snape is silent as he stares at Harry. Harry watches as he wets his lips. “I only heard the first part,” he says quietly. 

His face is blank as he stares at Harry for a long time. 

“I will keep you alive until then,” he says finally, voice flat. 

Harry can’t nod, so he says nothing. Snape doesn’t seem to expect a response; he is gazing toward the door. 

Harry’s chest no longer feels so tight. 

Perhaps his friends will survive this.


	7. 20 December

**20 December**

Snape sits, his back hunched against the wall.

He hasn’t spoken since he vowed to keep Harry alive until the appointed time.

He doesn’t move, except to give Harry water.

Harry watches him, but Snape doesn’t look up. 

Harry fingers’ twitch restlessly as the gray light seems to go on forever.

He doesn’t know if it's safe to speak yet. 

Finally, dusk creeps over them once more. 

The darkness which usually settles comfortably over Harry’s cell, no longer soothes him. He shivers in the damp room. He can’t remember what it feels like to be warm. His teeth are rattling loudly.

“Siccus Maximus.”

Harry blinks in the shadowed dark. He can feel Snape’s knees against his side now. 

The adapted Drying Charm warms Harry instantly. 

“Capio,” Snape whispers. 

The incidental warmth is captured. Harry knows it will wane eventually, but he closes his eyes now. The warmth pulses through him. 

Harry knows it is as much as Snape dares do. He feels Snape lean forward. Snape’s cloak stretches across Harry’s lower body. The weight of Snape’s hand on Harry’s chest holds it in place. 

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles.

“Sleep,” Snape commands quietly. “For a short while.”

Harry barely hears the words. He is already drifting.


	8. 21

**21 December**

Wet snow pelts Harry’s face. 

He squints to shield his eyes from the assault. 

“I stopped killing them, Harry.”

Harry can’t see Voldemort through the whipping snow. 

“Entire families died waiting for the great Albus Dumbledore to give you up. Little children…even babies, Harry. Some of them were not yet as old as you when you first cheated me.”

Harry doesn’t understand. He searches for Snape’s face in the flakes of snow. 

“I promised I would stop, once you were delivered to me,” Voldemort’s caressing voice continues as Harry’s blinks to avoid the driving flakes. “But Dumbledore refused. And you were too safe—too protected at Hogwarts, or by those Muggle relatives. I could not take you.”

Voldemort’s voice seems to be moving in circles. 

“And even now, when you are mine, you elude me, Harry.”

Harry listens to the crunching of the snow. Voldemort is settling beside him. Harry can’t move his eyes enough to see him though. 

“Why won’t you die, Harry?” 

Voldemort has already asked this question. Harry remembers. 

“If I cannot kill you, how will you die?” Voldemort asks softly; his breath tickles Harry’s ear. “I think, Harry,” he whispers, “that you need to wish for it. You need to wish for your own death so fervently, that there is no other choice but for you to give in.”

Voldemort’s words are a lullaby; Harry wants to give in. 

Harry sees Snape’s face in his thoughts as he closes his eyes, telling him not to give up yet. But he has no idea how long it will be until the prophecies can be fulfilled. He has lost track of time. He hopes it won’t be long now. 

“You have nothing to add, Harry?” Voldemort asks. “You do not wish to know how I intend to make you beg for your own death?” Voldemort’s face is above his own now. The ruby gaze makes the snow around them look crimson.

Harry wonders if Voldemort can see ambivalence in his eyes. 

“More families will die until you give in, Harry. Other babies.”

Harry sucks in clumps of wadded snow as he gasps. Pain pricks his limbs as he struggles to breathe. Voldemort doesn’t move as Harry wheezes. And then Voldemort waits. 

Harry pants; his heart is marching a dirge against his ribcage. 

“You…” Harry coughs; pain spirals down his throat. “…can’t.”

Voldemort shakes his head. He looks sad. “I already have, Harry. And I will not stop until you are ready to give me what I want. I promise you, we both will want it.”

“No.” Harry’s voice trembles but it doesn’t lack in conviction. Voldemort is unmoved. He beckons to someone Harry can’t see. 

Maybe it’s Snape. 

“I have something to show you, Harry,” Voldemort says calmly. He nods to the invisible person.

Large hands hook Harry under his armpits. 

He is hauled to his feet. 

“Bring him, Severus.”

Harry has to force himself not to sag in relief. 

“Move, Potter,” Snape hisses from behind. He gives Harry a shove between his shoulder blades. 

Harry stumbles, but Snape grips both of his arms again before he can fall. His legs feel like jelly. He takes three wobbling steps before he realizes he feels no pain. And then he stops. His lips part. 

Harry begins to flail. 

Bellatrix and another Death Eater are lazily carving designs into a man’s bare chest with their wands; his eyes are open as he lays spread-eagled out on his blanket of snow. 

His eyes are empty. A dead man stares at nothing. 

A screaming woman writhes on the ground as a tall Death Eater points his wand at her chest. 

But Harry can’t take his eyes off the little boy. Lucius Malfoy holds the raven-headed toddler in his arms, almost cradling him. 

The little boy is crying. 

Voldemort moves toward him. 

“Do not be afraid, little one,” he soothes. “It will be over soon.”

“No!” Harry struggles against the manacles around his biceps. “No!” he shouts hoarsely. He is pulled roughly against Snape’s chest. 

Snape’s arms wind around him, ensnaring him. 

“Be silent,” Snape hisses. 

A hiss is not supposed to be so desperate. 

The little boy is sill crying. Harry wants to turn from it. To hide his face. But Snape’s hold is unbreakable. 

Harry closes his eyes, turning his head as much as Snape’s arms will allow. 

“Avada Kedavra.”

Even through his eyelids, Harry can see the flash of green light. 

“Cannot bear to witness that which you have sewn, Harry?” 

Harry opens his eyes. His breaths come fast and heavy. 

“This is only a sample, Harry,” Voldemort tells him. The dark humor is gone from his face. “We will find your friends. The Weasleys you love so much…and the Mudblood girl.” Voldemort shifts his gaze to Snape. “So like you in that, Severus. And just like your little fascination, his will die at my hand as well.”

Harry’s breathing is cut off abruptly as Snape’s arms tighten around him. But only for an instant, and then he feels Snape’s wet hair brushing against his cheeks as Snape nods. “You are very wise, my Lord.”

Voldemort smiles his lipless smile. And then his fingers are digging into Harry’s chin as he forces Harry’s face upward. “I will kill as many of them as it takes.”

Harry stares into the blood-red eyes. He has never craved death so much. 

“Take him back to his cell, Severus.”

Harry doesn’t struggle as Severus complies. 

The woman is still screaming when Snape finally releases his bruising grip in the dark cell. Harry’s muscles slump. Snape catches him again, but this time, only to brace him with his upper body. 

Snape slowly lowers both of them to the floor. 

Harry is shaking; his tremors have nothing to do with the cold. 

He moves his head until he can see Snape’s face. 

Snape is already staring down at him. 

Harry can feel his chest heaving almost uncontrollably against his own.

“You have to let him kill me.” Harry is startled by the anger in his own voice. 

No.”

Harry’s teeth knock against each other. “…killed…them,” he chatters. 

He tries to banish the little boy’s face from his mind. 

It is impossible.

“He will kill many more if you die,” Snape snaps. His fingers tighten around Harry’s arms as he says it. 

Harry has no rebuttal. 

He is the savior of the wizarding world. 

“Ron and Hermione,” he whispers. He turns away so Snape will not see the moisture in his eyes. Heroes do not cry. 

“He will not find them.”

Harry turns back to Snape. Snape has not looked away.

“Your friends are safe. Since they are part of the second prophecy, Dumbledore is seeing to their protection until it is over.” Snape’s face is cast in shadows again. 

Harry studies the dark planes. The shadows, he decides pointlessly, make Snape look sad. 

Harry gathers as much spittle as he can before swallowing it down to soothe his throat. “Tell them…” he has to look away again, “…tell them I wasn’t hurt.” Harry doesn't want anyone to know how much he suffered; it will only hurt his friends. 

Snape raises his wand and poises the tip just above Harry’s mouth. “Tell them yourself.” He waves his wand in a tiny arc. “Aguamenti.” 

The fire in Harry’s throat is extinguished in the next instant. “I told you…the prophecy,” Harry begins wearily, wishing he didn’t have to use up his soothed throat to explain this to Snape.

“There is no antidote for the potion,” Snape tells him curtly. Harry’s mouth opens. Snape leans in close to Harry’s face. 

Harry snaps his lips closed as Snape’s breaths make puffs of white air between them; the shadows are gone from his face. 

“The potion may well be stronger than the Prophecy.” 

Harry wonders how Snape could have forgotten how the potion works; even through everything, Harry remembers. “But you have to want-” he begins to remind Snape.

“I understand very well the requirements of the potion, Potter,” Snape interrupts brusquely. 

Harry falls silent once more. 

Snape looks away from Harry’s gaze, toward the barred door, without giving Harry a chance to respond. 

Harry can't see his face, but he knows Snape is watching for their enemies. 

His hands are still secure around Harry’s arms.


	9. 22 December

**22 December**

Harry struggles against Snape’s manacles as the prison door slams behind them. “Be still,” Snape snaps as he thrashes against his chest. 

“I can’t…please…you have to…” 

Harry wants Snape to understand. He can’t allow more families to be killed; two more have died tonight. 

The children—miniature Harry Potters. 

“…it isn’t right…”

Snape shakes him; Harry’s teeth rattle. “I will not,” he growls. 

“You have to.” He tries to jerk away from Snape’s crushing grip, but Snape won’t allow that either. He spins them around until Harry is pressed against the wall farthest from the door. 

Shadows hide them from any prying eyes. 

“Do not be a fool,” Snape hisses. “This is exactly what the Dark Lord wants. To break you. We have no choice but to endure this.”

Harry glares up at Snape. “We?” he rasps. “It isn’t your death he’s mocking out there. It isn’t your friends he’s threatening to kill.” Harry doesn’t know where he finds the strength for the monologue, but each word burns its shape against his throat. “This isn't your choice.” Harry nearly gags on the harsh words. 

Snape snarls; the sound makes Harry shrink back. “You are wrong, Potter.” His voice is cold and deadly; his grip is punishing. “Your life is mine now. Albus gave it to me, because he knew you would throw it away at the first threat. _You_ are the one without a choice.” 

Harry stills at the cruel pronouncement. His raging muscles are flaccid in Snape’s grip now. _The potion was just another way for Dumbledore to control me_ , he realizes dully.

All he sees is betrayal in Snape's eyes. 

Even here, he is nothing more than a pawn.

“Get away from me,” Harry whispers, almost gasping. “You’re just like him.”

Snape’s fingernails dig into Harry’s arms as his face stiffens. In the next moment, Snape releases him abruptly. Without Snape’s support, Harry slides down the craggy wall, and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor; he is staring up at Snape, his eyes damp and surprised. 

Snape turns away without another glance. 

Harry watches him walk away. 

There seems to be a kilometer between them now as Snape stands near the metal door, his back to Harry. 

Neither of them moves as the day turns to dusk.

Harry is thirsty, but he does not ask for water. 

He watches Snape watch the night.

He has to force his eyes to stay open as sleep tries to overwhelm him.

\--

Harry’s eyelids snap open. 

He can no longer hear Snape’s even breaths in the pitch-black room. 

The silence is unbearable. 

Harry’s head shifts against the damp floor. He tenses as he waits for the punishment. 

There is none. 

It seems Voldemort has decided his new plan will be enough to break Harry. 

He is right. 

Snape was right.

But Harry is ready to ignore Snape’s logic and offer himself to Voldemort. 

Even if Snape doesn't agree. 

Guilt laps at Harry’s conscious.

“Sn-Snape?” he whispers hoarsely. 

He knows Snape will reprimand him for his disrespect. 

But there is no answering reproof. 

Harry struggles as he rolls over; the floor smells of urine and mold. He gags as he pushes himself slowly to his knees. 

His limbs tremble from the effort. 

“Professor?” Harry has to force the query out; his throat burns. 

There is no sound. 

No rustle of robes in the darkness. 

Harry is alone. His eyes roam the blackness, but not even a sliver of light protrudes from where he remembers the door should be. He stretches his arms out slowly; the movement drains him almost to the point of collapse. 

His fingers graze along the rough floor.

Snape is not beside him. 

He brings his hands back to his sides; his fingers brush against soft fabric; they curl around it. 

Snape’s robes. He remembers the feel of the fabric against his cheek. 

The robe feels like it has been plied with a Weight Enhancing Charm. Harry lifts it up anyway. 

He bunches it under his chin, and closes his eyes

When he opens them, it is still dark. 

And he is still alone. 

Snape has left him.

Harry’s joints creak as he shakes out the robes. Their faint rustling echoes in the darkness. 

He wraps the fabric around his shoulders, pulling the robes tight with clutching fists. 

Harry’s hands shake as he stares into the endless night.


	10. 23 December

**23 December**

Darkness eventually turns to dawn. 

Harry’s lips are heavy with thirst.

He watches the door, but no one comes for him.

Harry shifts against his wall; his head turns at the faint scraping sound beside him.

Ice dusts the bottom edges of Snape’s robes. Listless fingers trail along the frozen fabric and when he brings it slowly upward, he presses the robes to his parted lips. 

The icy fabric thaws on his tongue. 

As daylight fades to grey, he releases the wrung-out corner of the fabric; it splats onto the stones. 

Harry pulls Snape’s robes closer to his chest. 

Gray to black once more. 

Phantom shapes keep him company. 

When he is beginning to remind himself that they are not real, distant footsteps crunch in the snow outside. 

The distinctive light from a wand tip bobs toward Harry.

He uncurls his frozen fingers; Snape’s robes flutter to the floor. 

The door grates open. 

It isn’t Snape.

A Death Eater, the one who was cutting designs into the dead man’s chest, leers down at Harry. 

“I think, perhaps, he will scream now,” he drawls. Harry stares at him, knowing the words should trouble him. But they do not. 

“We have no time for your little hobbies, Yaxley.” 

Yaxley sighs, but moves out of the way. Malfoy steps past him; his nose wrinkles with disgust as soon as he steps into the room. Without pausing, he crosses the small cell in three steps and grabs Harry’s arm. 

“The Dark Lord has another demonstration for you,” he says in his haughty tones as he yanks Harry up.

Harry can barely stand.

He wants to ask where Snape is, but he stops the words before they can form on his tongue. Even if he himself is destined to die, Snape is not. 

Yaxley grips Harry’s arm. Harry doesn’t even wince as the man’s fingers bite into his flesh. 

Harry is dragged from the cell. 

Voldemort is waiting for him; a mausoleum is his backdrop. 

“Harry,” he says softly, with a disappointed shake of his head. “Why do you test me?”

There is only one reason, he longs to say. _To survive long enough to kill you._

Harry gazes at Voldemort, mute. 

“Still nothing to say?” Voldemort sighs. “How many more will have to die, Harry?”

Harry stares at Voldemort, unable to comprehend the exact meaning of the words. But Voldemort doesn’t wait for him to respond. 

“Dumbledore couldn’t hide all of them, I’m afraid…”

“No…” Harry whispers; his entire body spasms as Snape enters the circle. 

Remus is his prisoner. 

Voldemort laughs softly. “I see I have finally reached you,” he says quietly; his eyes are full of blood. 

Harry turns his attention from Voldemort. 

But Remus can’t see him through his blindfold. And Snape’s attention is on Remus. 

“Remus…” Harry croaks as he struggles against the vices around his biceps. 

“Harry,” Remus cries out; his voice is high and frantic. “Don’t do anything foolish-”

Snape clouts the side of Remus’ head. “Be silent,” he hisses. 

Harry stops struggling. 

He stares at Snape. 

But Snape will not meet his eye.


	11. 24 December

**24 December**

“I wonder, Harry,” Voldemort muses as he slowly circles Remus, “how much will you be able to endure?” 

“Leave him alone,” Harry croaks. Voldemort halts his meandering circuit around Remus. 

“So little?” he asks in surprise. “I have not even touched him, and already you ask me to stop.” Voldemort gazes thoughtfully at Harry. “I wonder…” he muses as he rotates his hand so that his wand is pointing at Remus. “Crucio.” It is a mere suggestion, but Remus begins to convulse. 

Remus screams as he falls to his knees

“No!” Harry whispers, unable to shout. He tries to tear his arms away from his captors’ hold, but it is no use. 

Voldemort looks pleased as Remus writhes on the icy ground; as his face contorts in agony.

“Please…stop.” Harry’s plea is lost amongst Remus’ screams, but Voldemort hears it. He shakes his head. 

“So soon?” he mocks. “Whether or not your friend lives or dies is your decision, Harry. How badly do you want him to live?”

In a flash, Voldemort is beside Remus, his familiar blade close to Remus’ throat; Remus is no longer screaming; his eyes are on Harry now.

“ _His_ flesh is not impervious, Harry,” Voldemort says as Remus struggles for breath. 

“Stop!”

“Harry…” Remus gasps, “…don’t-”

The tip of Voldemort’s dagger is pressed to Remus’ throat. “How long can you stand to see him suffer?” he wonders as he twists the blade a little. A spot of red blooms where steel meets flesh. “Just a bit more Harry, and you’ll have killed him as well.”

Harry tries desperately to twist his body free. He thrashes until pain radiates through his neck and shoulders. 

“Please…” he whispers softly, but this time his plea is for Snape, even though his eyes are still glued to Remus. “I can’t let him die…”

He sees Snape’s lean body stiffen, and he knows Snape understands. 

Harry’s stomach wrenches as Snape turns away again so that Harry only sees his profile. 

“It is your choice, Harry,” Voldemort says quietly; he is stroking his wand with one long, pale finger.

“Don’t let him die,” Harry begs, but Snape isn’t paying attention to him. 

Voldemort smiles. 

“Harry, don't…” Remus says in a strangled voice. 

Voldemort raises his wand. Harry stares down the long white point. 

_Snape…._

Harry tries to make the silent supplication penetrate Snape’s mind. 

Snape closes his eyes. 

“Avada Kedavra.”

Harry watches the green light coming toward him; it enfolds his body. He basks in its warmth. 

A cry of rage breaks through Harry’s peace. 

The green light has disappeared, and Voldemort is raising his dagger high above his head. 

“No!” Harry screams. 

The knife plunges into Remus’ throat. 

Blood spurts into the air as the artery is severed. 

Remus’ body convulses several times. 

And then he is still. 

Voldemort stares into Remus’ eyes as they fill with blood. “This is as you have chosen it,” he says sadly when he looks up at Harry again. “I will have to find another. Someone you love more, and then perhaps you will not kill that friend to save your own life.”

Harry’s lips tremble as he stares at Remus. “I don’t care about my own life,” he manages to gasp as his chest heaves with grief and exhaustion. 

“You are a liar, Harry,” Voldemort hisses, his anger revealing itself. He steps forward, kicking up snow as he moves swiftly toward Harry. 

His hand connects with Harry’s cheek with a solid crack. Harry’s head is spun around with the force of it. The Death Eaters release their hold and Harry staggers to his knees in the snow; Remus’ body is in front of him.

Crimson bleeds in rivulets from the lifeless body. 

“I will find the one you love the most,” Voldemort promises from somewhere behind Harry, “and then you will watch as I slowly disembowel your friend while he still breathes.” He leans in close to Harry’s ear now. “I will hear you beg for the end of your life with the next one, Harry.”

Harry believes him. 

Hermione’s face swirls in his mind as a rush of dizziness assaults him. The Weasleys’ faces join Hermione’s in a haze of orange and freckles…

Remus’ face becomes blurry as shadows creep over the edges of Harry’s vision. 

\--

Harry’s eyelids flutter open as something soft and icy is pressed against his cheek. 

It takes a moment for his eyes to focus, but he already recognizes the sharp lines of Snape’s features. 

Snape.

“Aguamenti.”

Harry’s greedy lips take the unexpected water, even as he stares up at Snape in confusion. Maybe his memories are a dream. 

“Remus?” he asks when Snape stops the little stream of water; he can barely hear his own voice. 

Snape doesn’t answer immediately; he carefully presses his cold robes to Harry’s cheek. Harry’s heartbeat increases its tempo. 

“He’s…” Harry has to gasp for a breath. “…dead.”

“Yes,” Snape says, so softly that Harry almost doesn’t hear it. 

Harry closes his eyes. 

“You said…” he chokes out, “…they’d be safe.”

He feels the weight of Snape’s hand on his chest, as though Snape is trying to steady Harry’s breathing with the pressure. Harry opens his eyes. 

“Lupin was apprehended during a mission for the Headmaster,” Snape tells him, as though tonight’s events have not affected him in the least.

Harry’s chest rattles as he tries to catch his breath. “You.” 

He isn’t certain what he means to say, but he knows it sounds like an accusation. Snape’s eyes reflect the pain in Harry feels. 

“There was nothing I could have done.”

Harry says nothing. He doesn’t want to believe him. 

Snape’s fingers press into his chest. “It was necessary to play my part when Voldemort ordered me to assist in the search.”

Harry wants to sit up; wants to hit Snape. “You should have tried to save him.”

Anger flares in Snape’s eyes. He pulls his hand away abruptly from Harry’s chest. 

“I could not,” he snaps. “Not without revealing my true loyalties, and then who would keep you alive?” he demands. 

“I don’t want to be kept alive,” Harry says, his furious words coming out in a low rasp. 

“I know that,” Snape hisses. There is more anger in his voice than in Harry’s. 

“He’s going to find them,” Harry says. Tears blur Snape’s face. “He killed Remus,” he gasps. “You let him kill Remus.” 

Harry clutches frenetically at the front of his jumper as though to pull off the fabric which is suffocating him. 

He can’t breathe. 

Snape’s hand immediately closes over Harry’s; the grip is painful. “It was the only way to keep you safe.” Snape’s voice is rough and ragged. “You have a job to do.” The plea in Snape's voice is a contrast to his harsh words.

Harry’s breathing begins to even out. 

“It will be over soon,” Snape tells him. “It is nearly the twenty-fifth.”

It is difficult to remember why that date is significant. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry can hear Trelawney’s’ voice: _When the sun goes down on the twenty-fifth of December…_

Harry struggles to sit up; he wants Snape to understand; he doesn’t have enough strength. Snape slides a strong arm under Harry’s back. He leans gratefully into Snape’s support. 

“…enough for the Prophecy,” he says with great effort. He holds Snape’s gaze—Harry has to make him understand. “…then…don’t stop it…”

Harry’s breaths are harsh as he waits for Snape to answer. 

But Snape doesn’t answer. 

There isn’t any time. 

Footsteps crunch in the distance. 

Snape’s head snaps up. “Be still,” he commands. Harry immediately freezes. 

He pulls his arm from where it is slung around Harry’s ribcage. He is moving quickly, but somehow he manages to prop Harry carefully against the wall before he pushes himself unsteadily to stand. He sways a little.

Harry reaches out a hand but Snape is already steady. 

“It is almost over,” Snape says again as he reaches down and grips Harry’s upper arms. Harry offers no resistance as Snape pulls him up. “You must endure this,” he says in a hard, low voice as the footsteps draw closer. “No matter what he does.”

Snape turns Harry around, giving Harry’s spinning thoughts no chance to fully process the dark meaning in Snape’s words. 

The prison door scrapes open; the sound reverberates in Harry’s ears. 

“The Dark Lord is waiting,” Malfoy announces. 

“He is weak,” Snape says; his voice is full of mocking. “Assist me.”

Malfoy looks like he would rather do anything than touch Harry, but he moves forward without a word and digs his fingers into Harry’s arm. 

“Move, Potter,” Snape snarls. Harry’s muscles wobble as he tries to obey. Malfoy’s sigh is loud. 

“We haven’t time for this, Severus. It is nearly midnight,” he says impatiently. He jerks Harry’s arm toward the exit. 

Snape’s grip keeps Harry from stumbling. His feet barely touch the ground as he is pulled across the graveyard where Voldemort waits in his usual place. 

“Do you know what day it is, Harry?” he inquires. 

Harry knows. 

“It is Christmas Eve,” Voldemort answers himself. “And in just a few moments,” he continues blithely, “it will be Christmas.” “This is a special day, Harry. Do you know why?”

Harry’s chin is jerked up.

“Do you?” Voldemort hisses. 

His fingers are crushing Harry’s jaw. 

“My Death Eaters have brought me a present, Harry,” Voldemort says softly. “Would you like to see it?”


	12. 25 December

**25 December**

With a grand sweep of his arm, Voldemort steps aside. 

Harry feels his muscles giving way as he sees Voldemort’s newest prisoners. 

Snape and Lucius allow him to sink to his knees; it is Snape’s hands that clamp onto his shoulders. He pulls Harry upward to stand again. 

“I know you must have much to say to your friend,” Voldemort says conversationally as he looks over his prize. “He seems to be rather indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.”

Leaning forward, Harry almost doesn’t notice when Snape’s fingers press around the curves of his shoulder. Harry has to force himself not to move again. 

Endure this, Snape had said. 

But Harry can’t. Not now. Not this. 

“Harry, are you all right?” Mr Weasley asks shakily from where he sits, bound in the snow. Ron is bound tight against his back. Both of their faces are covered with bruises. Mr Weasley’s nose looks like it has been broken—more than once. And there is a long, jagged cut running from Ron’s eye to his chin. 

Harry can only nod jerkily in answer to Mr Weasley’s question. 

He watches as Mr Weasley clasps Ron’s hand; Ron’s chest trembles. 

Harry’s stills his own fear and shifts his head so that he is looking up at Voldemort. 

“…your dagger,” he breathes. He will end this himself. He ignores Snape’s warning pressure against his arms. 

Voldemort gazes down at Harry; a tiny, triumphant smile adorns his lips. 

The small dagger appears in his palm. 

“Let us be certain you are ready.” The blade dangles between Voldemort’s fingers as he turns to Mr Weasley and Ron. 

“No,” Harry cries, struggling mightily to get away from Snape, but Snape won't him go. He locks his arms around Harry.

Voldemort ignores them. He steps close to Ron; crouches down so that his face is level with Ron’s.

Ron tries to move his head back, but he has nowhere to go. 

“Perhaps you’d enjoy a demonstration, Ron,” he offers. “Your friend Harry is very stubborn. I could show you all of the other families that have died because of his selfish choices.”

“Leave him alone,” Mr Weasley commands sharply; he tries to pull his son closer against his back, but Voldemort grabs Ron’s arm. 

Ron makes an unintelligible noise. 

“There is no reason to be afraid,” Voldemort tells him soothingly, just like he did with the first little boy. “Harry doesn’t want you to die…do you, Harry?” He is looking at Harry now. 

The dagger grazes along Ron’s neck. 

“ _No_ ,” Harry gasps, struggling futilely against Snape. “Leave him alone,” he chokes out. “Just…just give the dagger to me. _Please…_ ”

“If you like…” Voldemort flicks his wrist. The dagger whistles through the air; it hovers in front of Harry’s face. 

“Let him take it, Severus.”

Harry wonders if Voldemort will detect Snape’s hesitation; Harry can feel Snape’s arms tautening around his chest. 

Snape slowly moves his left arm. 

He holds firmly to Harry’s other arm as Harry wraps his fingers around the hilt of Voldemort’s dagger. He puts the tip against his partially-trapped wrist; he feels Snape’s body stiffen against his. 

“He was your first friend, wasn’t he, Harry?” 

Harry looks up again as the curious question, but he keeps his eyes on his best friend, and his best friends’ father. 

Ron and Mr Weasley are staring at him.

“Harry…” Mr Weasley whispers. Ron’s blue eyes are filled with tears. 

Harry pushes the dagger into his pulsing vein. 

There is no squelch of skin; no spurt of blood. 

He is still alive. 

Voldemort hisses in rage. He yanks Ron's head to the side. “More persuasion?” he snarls. “Do you want to see a favorite curse?” he asks, his voice growing in both pitch and volume. “I can slice off each piece of his body, one by one until you are ready, Harry.”

He points his wand at Ron’s face.

“Shall we begin with his nose? Or one of his ears? Even his lips can be separated from the rest of his-”

Harry’s desperate sawing motions against his wrist are futile. “Stop it!” he screams. 

Reason and rationality no longer belong to him. 

He twists violently in Snape’s arms. “Let me die. I can save him. I can. Please! He’ll kill them.”

Voldemort’s head whips around; he narrows his already-slitted eyes. He looks between Snape and Harry. Fury replaces the frustration. But Voldemort makes no accusation. He raises his wand. “Avada Kedavra,” he hisses. 

Harry’s knees buckle as Snape’s grip slackens; Harry sinks to his knees in the snow.

“No,” he moans as he watches Snape fall soundlessly to the ground.

Displaced snow makes a cloud of white all around his body. 

“I always knew you were worthless, Severus,” Voldemort spits at his fallen Death Eater.

“No,” Harry says again, and this time Voldemort’s words fuel his anger. Rage courses through Harry’s veins as pure adrenaline—pure hatred. He props himself up with one palm buried in the snow. He reaches out and in a movement so fast that even Voldemort misses it, Harry scoops up Snape’s wand and points its deadly tip at Voldemort. 

“Avada Kevadra,” he shouts hoarsely. 

In mid-turn, Voldemort’s pale mouth lips form an O of surprise. In slow motion, as if Harry is watching inside a dream, Voldemort falls, face down in the piled snow. 

Harry stares at the back of Voldemort’s head in silence. 

And then there is motion all around him. 

A cloud of silvered smoke swirls around Ron. 

Ron becomes Dumbledore. He towers in the spot where Ron had just been. His wand is slashing the air. Harry feels magic drifting over him. 

Unforgivables are zinging through the air. Bodies are falling around him. People are running.

Harry stops processing. 

He lets his wand arm flop back to the ground; the cold is sharp against his skin. 

His propped arm gives out and Harry flops onto his side into the snow. He lifts his head, turning it toward the place where Snape fell. 

_Snape._

Harry finally realizes that he, himself, is still alive. 

Alive, just as Snape wanted. 

Harry doesn’t want it. 

Snape.

He stares so intently, he imagines he sees Snape’s limbs moving. 

People are crowding around the professor until Harry can't see him any longer. 

Unforgiving hands grab at Harry as he tries to crane his neck to find Snape again. He is hauled to his feet, only to be settled on something cold and hard—a granite bench. He bats at the intrusive hands. “Snape,” he breathes, even as he realizes he only imaged Snape moving. He ceases his struggle. 

“A pallet, I think,” someone murmurs crisply. 

“He is severely dehydrated,” another voice adds, sounding annoyed at the inconvenience. 

Harry doesn’t move as they prod him.

“If you would allow me a moment.” 

Dumbledore. 

Harry’s fingers curl. 

Dumbledore’s face comes into view. He is crouching in front of Harry. 

“Harry, my dear boy,” Dumbledore begins softly, “I am so very sorry.” Harry gazes listlessly into the blue eyes. 

He does not respond. Dumbledore has betrayed him too many times. 

Pretending to be Ron is the last straw. 

Dumbledore continues, his voice gruffer than normal. He says things that Harry doesn’t understand. Harry is trying not to hear. “He made two of them Harry, and you were one…the diary was the other. I thought that he made many more,” Dumbledore tells him but Harry doesn’t know what he means. “Had I known you could have defeated him from that very first day, I would have told Professor Snape.”

“Professor…” Harry says bleakly as Snape’s face fills his mind. 

Dumbledore smiles gently at him. “It seems the potion has properties that even Professor Snape was not aware of, Harry. You saved him as well.”

Harry can’t make sense of Dumbledore’s words. 

“Saved him?” Harry echoes dully. 

Dumbledore reaches a hand out, but Harry tucks his hands into his chest before Dumbledore can touch him. Dumbledore looks surprised. He pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is as reserved as Harry has every heard it. “Because you did not wish him to die, the potion would not allow Voldemort to kill him.” He smiles kindly. “Just as he has kept you alive,” he adds softly. 

Harry stares at him, trying desperately to comprehend the words. 

“Snape is alive, Harry. He survived the Deadly Curse, just as you did.”

Harry pushes himself off from the rock unsteadily; he pulls his arms from Dumbledore’s support. 

“He is in no condition for this, Albus,” one of the voices from earlier chides.

Someone takes Harry’s arm and turns him toward a waiting clutch of people.

Snape is half-supporting himself on a tall headstone.

The insistent hand tries to tug Harry in the opposite direction, but he brushes the restraining hands away impatiently. 

Harry doesn’t know why, but he has to go over there. 

Snape looks up. 

And not knowing what compels him, Harry stumbles toward him.

Snape stands and when Harry stumbles, Snape is there to catch him.

Harry’s decimated body shakes with grief as he stares up at Snape.

Voldemort is dead. 

Big, fluffy snowflakes begin to drift lazily down; they coat Snape’s shoulders.

A broken sob wrenches through Harry’s raw, abused throat. 

He's alive. And Snape is still keeping him safe. 

Unable to hold his head up any longer, Harry lets it drop onto Snape's shoulder. He's so tired. Snape’s hand cups the back of his head, a comforting weight as the wind blows and dark robes billow around Harry like a blanket.

Snape grabs the curling edges with his fist and wraps Harry in their folds. 

Harry closes his eyes as he listens to the thrum of Snape’s steady heartbeat; it calms him as it did in their prison. 

For the first time in months, Harry remembers that he is alive.


End file.
